


Drift's First Litter

by shootertron



Series: Turmoil's Pets [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Pregnancy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mechpreg, Petplay, delayed fertilization, infantilization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9942860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootertron/pseuds/shootertron
Summary: Drift is pregnant, and Turmoil isn't the babydaddy, uh-oh!Don't worry, Turmoil is nice in this. It's some no-name Autobots who were cruel, so up goes the warning for rape u__u





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of short works grouped under "Turmoil's Pets".
> 
> The other ones happen after this one.

Turmoil had given Drift digitigrade modifications, tail modifications, armor modifications, and the addition of a gestation chamber and reproductive tract. Only the finest for Drift. 

Drift turned around and examined himself in a mirror after the modifications were done, warmth spreading down to his core. The modifications afforded him increased sensitivity, and more grace to his movements. Not to mention, they would give greater pleasure when interfacing. 

He traced the line of his abdomen, felt the seams, the places where the plating could be removed to accommodate gestating young. He knew that once the carrying process started, he would be vulnerable.

He was secure, supposedly: the war was over, along with the need to be constantly on guard. It would be worth it; he would look beautiful when carrying. And Turmoil was there to watch out for the both of them.

-

Drift’s first litter had been an accident that happened soon after Drift was modified with a gestation chamber.

First was the erratic behavior: the increased appetite, the pacing, and the lethargy. He tired easily and slept in most days.  Drift was more docile and quiet than usual, valve lips swollen, a line of mucus dripping out of him. He would curl up in his bed like he was nesting, or wander the house and yard in search of something. Drift had been acting “hand-shy”  and Turmoil had no idea what was wrong. That was, until Turmoil got a good look at him when he was far enough along. Drift’s belly was swelled up in size, the synth-flesh around his fuel nozzles puffed out. 

At that point it could not be mistaken for anything else: he was pregnant. The medical scans revealed three developing bitlets of several different colors and builds. None of them were tanks.

Turmoil was shocked. He had made precautions to avoid impregnating Drift until he was completely recovered from the operation. Was there another mech Drift had been seeing while Turmoil was away?

“How could this have happened?” he asked a terrified Drift, his huge hand on Drift’s shoulder.

Drift stared at him in silence for a long while, trying to lower his head in shame-deference. Turmoil looked at him, not saying anything.

Finally Drift, trembling, confessed:  “After you banished me. There were many mechs. I…”

There had been Wing, in Crystal City, who had trusted him when his superiors had doubted. There had been Kup, his unit commander. There had been Perceptor, whose approval he had been desperate to win. There had been Rodimus, another racer, who befriended the ex-Con. Drift had bought him a starship. They had journeyed together. 

And then there were the masses of Autobots, so many, who had taken him. He had never gotten names for some of them. 

Among their ranks, news had spread quickly of the ex-Con who had killed countless numbers of their comrades. Who was starting over, on the goodwill of Kup.  Naturally, these Autobots  were curious to how far they could push this newcomer.

They caught him in the washracks, or at the doorway to his private quarters, or even in the mess hall. Cornered him with deceptive smiles on their faces.

_“If you’re such a good Autobot now, why don’t you prove it to us?”_

When Autobots asked him for a frag, he felt at a loss to refuse. If he struggled, the courts would side with the Autobots, and not the ex-Con. He learned that the hard way, the one time he sent one flying backwards with his fist. Reprimands were shouted at him. He was threatened with demotion, or even expulsion from the Autobots.

“I. I just wanted them to like me. To trust me.”  Drift said, as he recounted his time amongst them. His voice was trembling.

If he gave in, he figured the Autobots would trust and appreciate him. There had been many Autobots who were eager to take a turn with the pretty ex-Con who took spike without complaint, even as they jeered and pulled him about .

Drift didn’t know how this could have happened either. He didn’t even have a gestation tank when those all those mechs took him! He must have had a subconscious wish to have his children look like them! There must have been some stored code, a memory imprint, seeds lying dormant , waiting until the day their carrier was safe from harm to germinate.

Drift trembled in fear, afraid of the punishment he was expecting for being unfaithful, for letting this happen. He feared Turmoil would force him to go to a medic, to get rid of all the bitlets so Turmoil start over with a litter sired exclusively by him. Or he would be chained up in the house, under constant surveillance so he would not be seeing any other mechs. 

But the punishment he anticipated did not come. Instead, Turmoil held him, wiping away the drops of cleaning fluid pooling at the corners of his eyes with his gigantic hand.

“No. That is nothing to be sorry for,” he said.

“Since they are your creations, I will be pleased with them, no matter the sire. And I look forward to raising them.”

Drift’s face seemed to light up at hearing this. A great weight had been lifted off his back. He put his arms around Turmoil and nuzzled his faceplate, standing on his toes and vigorously wagging his tail.

Soon, the bitlets were born. Drift lay on a soft mattress in the living room with his legs splayed apart, panting heavily. Turmoil called up a medic, a somewhat gargoyle-like mech who attended to Drift as he pushed out three tiny racecars. The medic cleaned them off with a towel and handed them back to their dam, to hold. Turmoil took photos of Drift holding each one.

The two of them picked out names: “Comet”: flame colored, “Aster”: blue and purple, “Meander”: orange and black. They took after Drift in appearance.  The two of them were exhausted caring for the energetic bitlets through the day-night cycle: feeding, cleaning, and supervising. At times, Turmoil held all three squirming racecars in his arms as Drift lay down to rest.

Drift proved to be a gentle-natured dam. Turmoil recorded hours of footage of him lying down, letting the bitlets suckle fuel, sleeping with them huddled in a pile around him.  Tiny racecars crawled across the floor, dressed in garments Turmoil had knit for them. Turmoil invited his old friends to play with them, taking pride in the bitlets like he’d personally sired them.

However, to prevent future accidents, Turmoil had Drift taken to the medic to purge the coding from those other mechs from his reproductive system. He had to hold Drift’s hand as the medic inserted a tool into Drift’s valve, then flushed out his holding tank and checked his processor-gestation tank hardline to be sure the offending coding was all gone.

In the following week, Drift was wracked with worry, feeling awfully empty . Sitting on the couch with legs crossed, he looked out the window, at the dim sky outside. He was relieved that the coding from those other mechs was gone now, but he feared it was only a matter of time before Turmoil would turn him out into the cold. Even with the fortune he’d stowed away, he wouldn’t have anyone to love him. Ratchet, Rodimus, Perceptor – they were all disappointed in him. He’d let their crewmembers get killed. He’d failed as a –

Turmoil caught him in the middle of this self-effacing spiral, and held him tight.

Long ago, he’d seen Deadlock get this way: driving out into the desert by himself, thinking that nobody would find him. Deadlock had his head down, arms wrapped around his legs. Looking down at the ground: petrified by sadness, regret, replaying an old memory over and over again.

Or other times he would find Deadlock tossing and turning in recharge, calling for someone who was no longer there. 

 _“Gasket…”_ he would say, a thin whisper.

At those times Turmoil would grab him from behind, holding him tight, or take his small hands in his own. Deadlock would pull away, embarrassed at appearing so weak and needy before his commander.

But now, a lifetime away, Drift only nuzzled into Turmoil,  accepting the arm wrapped around his back, the reassuring bulk of his chest against his face. Smelling the familiar mix of joint lubricant and black metal against his nose, feeling the gigantic hand caressing the back of his head and the space between his shoulder blades. 

“My plans, they include you.”  Turmoil reaffirmed.

He spoke of a bright future: they would have a great many more children together, and they would grow up and repopulate Cybertron. They would have descendants throughout the galaxy, and huge family reunions. Drift wouldn’t have to worry about his past life, and in this small way he could repair the damage caused by the Great War. Wasn’t that a wonderful plan?

 “The future seems uncertain.” He was used to believing the roof above his head could collapse any day, and the floor yanked out from beneath him.

Still, Drift stayed there, in the other’s embrace, for a good while longer. In the other room their children were asleep, knowing nothing of the millennia of sadness that had passed before their birth. 

 


End file.
